I should write a history of things:
The feeling of worn leather shoes with holes to let Argentine rain in
thin foam mattresses for forced sleep
the burn on my neck or the skinning of my leg
braided hair and borrowed jackets
your hand on my hand
Does everyone feel this longing?
This insides-out longing?
that fills sheet upon
sheet
pillowcases and night shirts?
One that raps knuckles and pulls skin away from bone?
scrapes the air out of lungs
and burns words into the insides of the mouth?
God, please
promise me
“no love will end”
Promise me
“the selfishness will shrink out of it
and the rest will live”
Promise
“love cannot be waste”
Promise
promise me
